Page 100 of Duke It Out
“I know that too.” I rub the bridge of my nose, already regretting the sharpness in my voice.
He sinks into the leather armchair opposite me and stretches his legs out, folding his arms behind his head for a moment as he surveys me. “So, what are you doing?”
I look down at the manuscript on the table.
“I’m going to fix it.”
Jamie raises a brow and picks up the bottle of Finn’s whisky, examining the label with a frown. “Fix what?” he says eventually.
“All of it.”
He puts the bottle back on the table and wanders over to the cabinet, pulling out a glass. He tips a finger measure of whisky and brings it to his nose, inhaling for a moment before he drinks.
“Good,” he says eventually.
I don’t say anything more. We sit in silence, and the fire crackles and sighs gently as the remaining log shifts in the grate.
He finishes his drink, sets the glass down on the table with a quiet noise, and heads for the door.
“You know,” he says without turning around, “you should probably tellherthat. Before it’s too late.”
He leaves. I sit there as the light fades, and the fire sighs itself to pale ash. The ghosts of my ancestors look down from the walls. I wonder how many of them have fucked up as royally as I have.
39
EDIE
It’sthe most Monday-ish of Mondays you could imagine. The coffee machine is making a noise like a strangled robot, and steam is coming out of the wrong hole. I stand back as Morag threatens it with a spatula.
“If this bloody thing gives up on me now, I swear to God I’ll?—”
There’s a group of mothers sitting at the table in the in the corner with a gaggle of young children. It’s the school holidays and the place is heaving already. It’s going to be a long day, and a long day with no coffee at this rate, which isn’t ideal for a coffee shop.
“For Christ’s sake,” hisses Morag in frustration. She thwacks the top of the machine.
One of the mothers looks up and clears her throat pointedly. A blond child with piercing blue eyes stares in our direction, then tugs her sleeve and whispers something in her ear.
“Yes, I know, darling, that’s a bad word, but sometimes when grown-ups get cross, they say things they shouldn’t.”
Morag shoots me a look, and I widen my eyes in silent response.
“You mean like when you said, ‘bloody fuck’when the bricks fell down in the kitchen?” says the child, all innocence.
An elderly gentleman sitting by the door tries to disguise his snort of laughter with a cough, and the mother closes her eyes in horror as her friends start laughing.
“Yes, Leo, exactly like that.”
I leave Morag to it and start clearing tables, wiping them down and stacking cups and plates onto a tray. There are old ladies in twinsets gossiping over pots of tea, and a group of tourists hovering at the door as if they can’t make their mind up whether to come in or not. There’s nowhere else to eat in the village, so it shouldn’t be a life-or-death decision.
Despite the chaos, I’m loving working here. It’s busy, its noisy, there’s always something going on, and I don’t even mind the customers or the fact that I’m usually covered in leftover jam or spilt coffee, or sometimes both.
Today it’s flour from the delivery from the bakery in town. I try and dust down my apron in the kitchen, then turn as the bell over the door rings. The tourists must’ve made their mind up and I put on my welcoming smile, ready to?—
My stomach drops.
Rory’s windswept, in a casual sweater rather than his usual crisp shirt. He’s got the dogs at his heels and Bramble dashes forward, straining at her lead to get to me, her tail wagging furiously.
The whole café pauses. Even Morag stops swearing at the coffee machine and casts a glance over at me, one brow raised and an I-told-you-so expression on her face.
